


Return to Fort Freiheit

by gunlord500



Category: Phoenix Point (Video Game), X-com, XCOM
Genre: Action, Gen, Gunplay, Lovecraftian Monster(s), lovecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunlord500/pseuds/gunlord500
Summary: Four soldiers supposedly infected by the Pandora Virus are sent back to a fallen human haven to perform one last mission for New Jericho. Based off of Unstable Voltage's playthrough of the Phoenix Point PC Weekender demo.





	Return to Fort Freiheit

RETURN TO FORT FREIHEIT

Gunlord500’s Unofficial Phoenix Point Fanfic #5, Published on 2/23/2018

Colonel Harlson told them what had happened on the way back to Fort Freiheit. Corporal Isaiah Thomson should have been prepared—since he had started in the morning and it was evening now, he had plenty of time for it. But when the Armadillo Armored Personnel Carrier neared the gates of the haven, he still felt his stomach lurch.

The stronghold in which over 600 people once lived and worked had not been completely wiped out of existence. The bridge over the river leading to it was still up, its gates still stood, and even the floodlights over those gates were still operational.

But not a single human soldier manned its walls. In fact, the entire base was as silent as a tomb—which, in the end, it was. 

The additions to the complex proved it was no longer in the hands of humanity. Subtle at first on the road to Freiheit, the denuding alien corruption grew progressively more evident as Thomson’s team neared their destination. The trees were lifeless and twisted—expected, in this age—but fleshy, weblike strands of some orange-purple substance began to cover them the closer the Armadillo drove to the base. As it stopped in front of the bridge, Thomson saw tendrils of that weird stuff bursting out of the ground, curling around rocks, trees, and the sides of the bridge itself as if it were alive, and voraciously hungry.

The mission hadn’t even started yet and he had a bad feeling about it.

Not that he let it show. “We’re here,” he curtly stated. “No sense wasting time. Let’s get ready.”

Thomson stepped out of the driver’s compartment of the APC, and his three teammates did so as well. With the practiced skill of someone who’d done it many times before, he gave his kit a quick inspection. His heavy armor—its large pauldrons and visored helmet giving him almost the appearance of a medieval knight—was battered and dented, but there were no stains on its surface. He pressed a couple of buttons on the left gauntlet of his suit, and nodded in satisfaction as he heard a low whirring noise coming from his back. The suit was too heavy to permit him to climb ladders or vault over walls, but the techies had attached a powerful engine to the back of its chestplate that could boost him high into the air for a short time. He tapped another button close to his chest, and a whirring noise came from his right shoulder as a spindly mechanical arm rose above it, carrying a pair of large rockets. 

Isaiah performed the same ritual on his weapon. The big gun was what the techs called a “Gauss” weapon. Rather than relying on gas or gunpowder to launch a projectile, a coiled electromagnet propelled metal slugs to extreme velocities. Corporal Thomson’s variant was built to fulfill the combat role of a machinegun or squad automatic weapon. It looked like it had three “barrels,” but those were actually shields for an interior accelerator which could chamber and launch dozens of these slugs every second. That power came at the cost of being terribly heavy and unwieldy—even a big man like Isaiah wouldn’t be able to do much sprinting lugging it around. Still, the defense his armor provided combined with the firepower at his fingertips meant he never had to run from much.

The gun had several lights along the top barrel which all glowed blue, proving the ammo feed systems and magnetic accelerator were secure and solid. Nodding in satisfaction, Isaiah looked up to see his three teammates completing their own checks.

Private Daniel Stoller was the first to catch his eye, and grinned while flashing him a thumbs-up. Thomson liked the kid—he was dependable, helpful, and eager to please. He was also the best shot in the team, and his rifle (a Gauss weapon, like Isaiah’s, but one with an extremely long accelerator shielded by only one barrel which allowed it to fire with extreme accuracy but at only a semi-automatic rate) was in impeccable condition despite having seen a lot of use. Unfortunately, Stoller was also not the brightest bulb in the box, to put it charitably. He’d been assigned this suicide mission because he’d gotten infected after eating some meat taken from one of the creatures. But as long as the only thing he had to do was shoot rather than think (or eat), and if he didn’t turn over to the aliens during the mission, he’d do fine.

Next up, Thomson glanced at private J.P. Richter. His armor and weapon were in excellent condition as well, but the same couldn’t be said for the man himself. A dusting of brown stubble covered his face and his short hair was greasy and unkempt. Not uncommon these days, but Richter paid less attention to hygiene because he simply didn’t care. His cold, unfocused gaze was enough to tell Thomson that. He couldn’t be bothered to salute, or even return Thomson’s smile. He just pointed to his gun—a shorter version of Stoller’s that was less accurate but had a higher rate of fire—and shrugged.

Under other circumstances, Thomson might have kicked him off the mission then and there, but he’d also seen Richter in action a few times and knew that his apathetic demeanor when out of combat masked a demon on the battlefield. Richter didn’t care about anything but killing aliens, and he was very passionate and very good at that one job. It was how he’d gotten infected, in fact—chasing after a giant beast that had killed his team, he managed to take it down single-handedly. Thomson wasn’t worried about him.

He was worried about the last member of the team. Lieutenant—former Lieutenant Irina Petyaeva glanced up from her gun (same as Richter’s) when she noticed Thomson looking at her, and quickly glanced away, not wanting to meet his eyes. Thomson once considered her a friend. Hell, she looked a little like one of the cute teachers he’d known as an aide back in Maryland, in a more peaceful time he might have considered asking her out. But for reasons he could not understand, she’d betrayed him and New Jericho. As Thomson had been keeping guard while she was interrogating an infected prisoner, Petayaeva had suddenly gone crazy. First her arm had started bleeding, then she’d smashed her elbow into Thomson’s face, and then, while he was dazed, grabbed his head and slammed it thrice to the floor. Thomson didn’t remember what happened after that, having woken up in a quarantine cell. All he knew was that Petyaeva had been captured and sent on this mission along with the other dead-men-walking. 

Had she been infected? Mind-controlled by the infected girl she had been interrogating? Thomson had no idea. All he knew was that he’d be keeping a very close eye on her on this mission. 

“Looks like we’re all good to go, sir,” said Stoller, making a fist and thumping it against his chestplate. The material was sturdy and provided some respectable protection, but wasn’t as thick as Thomson’s own armor, and lacked the jetpack. Richter and Petyaeva had been given the same equipment, the rationale being that they could compensate for Thomson’s slower speed with the greater ease of movement and flexibility their lighter armor afforded—at least they could climb ladders.

“Alright,” replied Thomson. He tapped a button at the side of his helmet, opening up a radio channel to his commander. “Colonel Harlson, we’ve deployed from the Armadillo and are awaiting your orders. Over.”

After a few moments of static, Harlson’s calm, determined voice came back, on all their channels. “Thomson. Petyaeva. Stoller. Richter. I won’t mince words. You’re all infected, and this is your last chance to do something good for your species. The haven is lost, but we can still save the population, and our work. I need you to help us make that happen. Re-enter Fort Freiheit, activate the long-range beacon, take the guard tower, and then hold them off for as long as you can.”

Harlson paused for a moment, as if considering his next words. “This is a one-way mission. You know what you’re in for. Soldiers do the hard yards so other people get to live in the light. Now, make me proud.”

Harlson’s voice fell silent, along with the radio’s static, indicating he had shut the channel off entirely. All was quiet again, and Thomson again raised his eyes to look at his team. Stoller looked enthusiastic, but neither Richter nor Petyaeva had changed their expressions. It seemed like Harlson’s little pep talk hadn’t done much for them.

Thomson expected that much, given Richter’s personality and Petyaeva’s apparent traitorousness, but honestly, after the secret briefing Harlson had given him, a pep talk would have done nothing for him as well. The idea of fighting so that other people could “live in the light” seemed much hollower, now. 

Harlson himself certainly couldn’t be said to be living in the light.

Not that it mattered, though. Most of the civilians in the base had managed to evacuate before the monsters arrived, but since the underground train system had gone down, they were fleeing to safety on land, which was far slower. It was only a matter of time before the aliens finished picking apart the bas and started to chase after them. If Thomson and his team could distract the creatures just long enough for the civilians to escape to another haven, this mission would be worth it. 

“Alright everyone, let’s move,” Thomson ordered. “Don’t waste your grenades on any of the smaller creatures unless you absolutely have to. We don’t know if there are any of the big ones still hanging around.”

At least a few of them had been present—Thomson saw one hanging off the edge of the bridge to Freiheit. It was called a Chiron—an abomination that looked like a combination of man, spider, and beetle that was also nearly as large as a tank. Freiheit’s garrison had managed to blow a few holes in it, but apparently that hadn’t been nearly enough to stop the alien force as a whole from breaking through. Beyond it, within the base itself, highlighted by the flickering light of the interior lamps, Thomson could see the eviscerated corpses of several New Jericho soldiers surrounded by the savaged bodies of more alien creatures. Though some of the human corpses were likely his friends, Thomson felt only a twinge of sadness as he took it all in. He’d seen to many scenes like it by now to be profoundly affected. At the moment, all he was concerned about was the cover the Chiron’s massive cadaver would provide. As quietly as they could, the team sneaked up behind and around it, Thomson and Richter taking point while Petyaeva and Stoller hung back just behind. 

The moment they neared the main gates to Fort Freiheit, they saw firsthand what they already knew: They were not alone. 

Out of the darkness in the distance and into the lamplight staggered an ugly, malformed shape. It wasn’t close enough to make out clearly, but they all knew what it was: A ‘Crabman,” the most common form of alien mutant they’d all seen. Roughly humanoid in shape, these creatures had arms that ended in crab-like pincers, hence their names. Recently, however, reports had come in of Crabmen variants with strangely enlarged pincers, giant claws that covered most of their bodies—claws which behaved more like full shields, in other words. This made the things slightly less dangerous in melee, but even one of those smaller pincers could still be easily fatal, and the claw-shields provided more than enough survivability to be worth it.

That was an inconvenience for the team—but not too much more. The moment he saw it, Richter steadied his gun and fired off a three-round burst. One Gauss bullet managed to graze the creature’s thin abdomen, but the other two bounced harmlessly off its chitinous shield. Luckily, even though it wasn’t heavily wounded, the Crabman was frightened, and scurried behind an abandoned pile of ammunition crates the unlucky personnel of Freiheit had attempted to put up as a makeshift barricade. 

The troops creeped forwards, away from the cover of the Chiron corpse, but with their weapons at the ready, waiting for just the right moment. Unfortunately, that moment did not come. The Crabman seemed more afraid than Thomson thought the aliens could be, and though Richter took another missed shot at it, it scuttled away rather than towards the human interlopers, back into the darkness. 

“Let’s go after it, but not too far,” Thomson said. “It might be trying to lure us into a trap.” 

Not even a moment passed before Thomson’s hunch had been confirmed—and to his satisfaction, he knew that the other three members of his team were thinking the exact same thing. “CONTACT!” Richter yelled as he passed through Freiheit’s gate. There was another Crabman lurking in an alcove near the gate’s left guard tower, this one without a shield. This type of mutant was similar in size and shape to the Crabman which had run off, but instead of a shield it had a long tentacle wrapped around a large, rusty machinegun.

It made Thomson sick to think of humanity’s own weapons being used against it, but all that did was make him ever more determined to kill every single monster he could. Richter certainly felt the same way, and judging by her speed, so did Petyaeva. She’d been running right behind Richter and stopped the very instant he yelled out his warning. Together, the two of them unloaded their weapons into the Crab Gunner, turning it into a smoking stain on the wall. If she really is a traitor, Thomson thought to himself, she hates those things as much as Richter does.

Thomson couldn’t let his troops hog all the fun—especially since they had no idea how many more of those things were waiting for them. He slammed his right hand down on one of the control buttons of his left gauntlet, and the engine strapped to his back roared to life. It shot out a plume of orange flame trailed by clouds of black smoke as he rose and then fell in an arc through the air on top of the right tower. That gave him a better vantage point…from which he could see another Crabman hiding below.

Petyaeva, Stoller, and Richter fell back and consolidated their position just outside the gates while the second Crabman clambered up the tower, hoping to get at Thomson. Cool as ice—there was a reason Harlson had delegated command to him—he turned his attention to the first Crabman, which he could also see hiding back behind the ammo boxes. From his position he now had a clean shot at it, and he took it. A thick stream of glowing-blue Gauss bullets filled the air around the creature, most thudding into the ground but a few slicing through chitinous flesh. 

The Crabman was still standing—the chitin that covered them was extremely hard, providing almost as much protection as Thomson’s armor, even from high-powered Gauss weaponry. But it still had its weakpoints. “I gotcha covered, sir,” cheered Stoller as a blue flash streaked from far outside the gates straight into the beast’s head, splattering it into a hundred pieces. 

“Good work, Stoller,” Thomson grunted, looking suspiciously below him. For some reason, the second Crabman hadn’t elected to make its way up to the ceiling—instead, it ran across the bridge connecting the right gate tower with the left. Thomson had no idea what it was planning, but he wouldn’t let it get away. The thing had its shield deployed, meaning none of Thomson’s shots would get through, but that wasn’t his plan. He grinned as he opened fire, the bullets tearing open the floor below it. Squealing angrily—sometimes it seemed to Thomson that the weird sounds the Pandora mutants made were an actual language instead of just animal reactions—the Crabman plummeted down.

Thomson hoped that had killed it, but didn’t have time to make sure, because the other three had entered the haven proper, and caught the attention of another Crab Gunner. Petyaeva and Richter had to duck behind another pile of ammo pallets as a score of machinegun bullets flew over their heads, but alien aim was much worse than theirs—another pair of bursts from their Gauss rifle sent the thing collapsing to the ground with a scream of agony that could be heard across the entire battlefield. Just as quickly, their magazines running low, the two whipped around when they heard more gurgling coming from above and behind them. The second Crabman had re-ascended the guard tower, apparently hoping for revenge on Thomson. 

Richter and Petyaeva fired, using up the last of their ammo, and both swore angrily as the bullets either went wide or bounced harmlessly off the thing’s shield. Ignoring them, it crossed the bridge back to Thomson’s position…just before its head disappeared in a flash of blue.

“YEE-HAW!” yelled Stoller, causing everyone else on his channel to curse his enthusiasm even as they praised his skills. But when they heard the ominous rumbling from the bridge, all of them agreed with Stoller’s next assessment: “Oh, SHIT!”

Standing behind them, blocking off the bridge—and therefore their escape route—was a twisted abomination that could have only been birthed in the blackest pits of hell. A little more than twice the size of the Chirons whose corpses lay scattered around the facility, this new creature was a hideous amalgam of spider, crab, and human. Its black-purple carapace turned to orange at its extremities, which consisted of the six multijointed legs on which it stood along with the two longer limbs which ended in larger, nastier versions of the pincers of the Crabmen. Above that was its thorax, which roughly approximated the shape of a human woman’s torso, except of course for the black exoskeleton covering it and the second pair of smaller orange pincers that ought to have been her arms. Her head was pale grey and completely hairless, dominated otherwise by black: Pitch-black eyes, tumorous black growths attached to both sides of her head, and a yawning black mouth filled with far too many fangs. Behind her was raised a swollen, bulbous purple sac, similar to a spider’s abdomen but with a snail-like whorl on either side of it. 

Thomson and his men had been taken by surprise—he had no idea how such a massive creature could just appear behind them without any of them noticing. She hadn’t tailed them on the trip here, or at least he doubted it—the thing must have crawled out of the river below. But wherever she came from, it was very pissed off, and slammed her main claws angrily into the ground as she began her lumbering advance. 

It couldn’t have shown up at a worse time. Just as it made its appearance, a Crab Gunner and several more Crabmen emerged from the depths of the buildings deeper inside the complex. The Gunner began firing at Richter and Petyaeva, who swore and reloaded their weapons, while the other two Crabmen scuttled towards their prey. 

Richter and Petyaeva were lucky—all the Gunner’s shots went wide, and as swift as the Crabmen were, they weren’t fast enough to be an immediate threat. Stoller was not as fortunate.

He was quick, but the gigantic beast—a Crab Queen, they were called—was quicker than he anticipated. As he tried to scurry away, off the bridge and towards a more defensible position, the Queen lashed out with one of her pincers. It didn’t score a direct hit, but came very close to doing so—just a few inches to the right and it would have speared Stoller straight into the air. As it was, he screamed as he was thrown to the ground, a terrible, bleeding gash opened up on the side of his upper torso.

Thomson’s team was reeling, but they had surprises of their own—they weren’t nearly as easy prey as the Queen had apparently thought they’d be. “HEY! CRABBY!” Thomson shouted, using his jetpack to boost down from his perch on the tower onto the ground in front of Stoller. It was enough to distract the Queen—and save Stoller’s life. Growling, the abomination paused and looked at the machinegunner, which gave the sniper enough time to get back to his feet and hide behind the same barricade the first Crabman had used. Realizing he’d die very soon if he didn’t staunch the blood flowing from his wound, Stoller reached into one of the pouches at his belt and pulled out a miracle of modern technology—a device shaped vaguely like a bulky white pistol. It was a nano-medikit; one pull of its trigger could bind together almost any wound and staunch its bleeding, and precisely that bathed Stoller in a warm green glow and secured his life—for the moment. 

Thomson, on the other hand, was taking the offensive. “Stay calm,” he shouted, “we’re ready for this! We’ve been saving up our explosives, it’s time we used them!” The queen lifted her legs and reared up over him, preparing to strike, but Thomson didn’t move an inch. He knew very well that its massive claws could tear apart even his heavy armor like paper, but he wasn’t planning on taking any hits. With a feral growl and a vicious grin, Thomson tapped one button on his chestplate, and the robotic arm extended itself from beside his jetpack engine—this time pointing its rocket pod at the giant creature and whirring ominously. 

He would have liked to shout something like “EAT THIS!” but the recoil of the rocket kept him from doing anything but gritting his teeth as it launched. It soared from the pod held above his shoulder right into the Queen’s chest, and she let out a crackling wail of anger as she staggered several steps back. She wasn’t dead—not close to it—but Thomas knew she wouldn’t be. He’d faced off against a creature like her once before, and knew that the true benefit of his attack had been the cracks and tears that had appeared all across her exoskeleton. Even if they couldn’t penetrate armor directly, New Jericho explosives could weaken it so the next attack would. 

Following his example, Richter and Petyaeva darted out in front of him from behind their cover, heedless of the Crab Gunner still firing—they wagered, correctly, that it wouldn’t be able to hit them from so far away. Yelling epithets at the Queen, almost simultaneously they each unhooked a grenade from their belts, primed it, and tossed it under her abdomen. She screeched in pain and fury as the twin explosions blew apart one of her claws and all but one of her legs.

She was scared, now—she hadn’t expected this. She roared and squealed as the ponderous bulk of her body crashed to the ground. With one leg and her remaining claw she attempted to scuttle towards the tiny humans who had so insulted her, but it was difficult going indeed, and they were too far away for her to reach, for the moment. 

“We’ll deal with her later,” Thomson ordered over his team’s channel. “The other crabs are coming!” He whirled around, just in time to see the pair of Crabmen rushing at him, followed by the Crab Gunner, shooting wildly into the air. He didn’t waste a moment. Thomson had not retracted his rocket pod, but with one hand he turned the button on his chestplate, manipulating the pod’s aim. Then he pressed down.

A second rocket—Thomson’s last—blasted out and landed directly between the two Crabmen, showering both of them with fire and shrapnel and cracking apart their shields and exoskeletons. They both fell squirming to the ground, not quite dead yet, but the hundreds of bleeding wounds twisting across their broken frames ensuring they soon would be. Stoller, meanwhile, had just about recovered from the Queen’s blow. He would need a good rest in a good bed to really heal, of course, but the medikit had recaptured his vigor in a way that was nothing short of impressive. Screaming in both pain and exhilaration, he leveled his Gauss sniper rifle at the oncoming Crab Gunner and scored his third perfect headshot of the mission. 

If you weren’t infected, kid, I’d promote you here and now, thought Thomson, before his thoughts were interrupted by another explosion—Richter had lobbed his second and last grenade at the already-crippled Queen, blowing off her last leg and ensuring she wouldn’t be able to crawl any closer. He then emptied the entire magazine of his assault Gauss into her chest, saying not a word but smiling madly.

He was promptly joined by Thomson, who had picked up his machine gun and made it roar. Not even a Queen could withstand that amount of withering Gauss firepower, and as the top of her unspeakable head disappeared in a haze of blue followed by a rain of red, her blasted body twitched, writhed, and then lay very still.

“Was that all?” Richter spat on the creature’s corpse.

“I don’t think so,” replied Thomson. “But I think they don’t have too many left. Let’s go in deeper, but stay sharp.”

The team did so, Richter and Petyaeva once again taking point. As they advanced, a gurgle to Richter’s right revealed another Crab Gunner inside the control center, and a melee Crabman on the roof—much closer to Richter than he anticipated. He and Petyaeva opened fire, successfully blowing apart the Gunner—but not before it had a chance to fire off a few shots, one of which buried itself into Richter’s chest. His armor managed to save him, but he’d need immediate medical attention—

Which would be tough to find, as behind him, from inside the warehouse in which Fort Freiheit’s Armadilloes were stored, came another pair of crab creatures. Ignoring his wound, Richter turned and fired off another burst, chopping off the new Gunner’s leg before Petyaeva finished it off. 

Its companion skittered into the shadows of the warehouse while the Crabman from the command center advanced. Richter fell back and applied his own medikit to his bleeding chest, and all of his companions fired at the charging Crabman, but the combination of its shield and natural quickness warded off even the combined power of a Gauss machinegun, sniper rifle, and assault rifle. Petyaeva screamed as it fell on her, its pincer barely being stopped by her chestplate. Instead of trying to drive the pincer in deeper, the creature withdrew it, preparing for another strike—and that proved to be its undoing. As Petyaeva squirmed out from under it, Richter sneaked up behind. Still smiling that grim, silent smile, he leveled the barrel of his rifle directly behind its head and pulled the trigger, with predictable results. 

“Guys, little help here?” called Stoller. While Thomson, Richter, and Petyaeva had been occupied with the creatures from the control center, their sniper had been pinned down by the remaining gunner in the warehouse. He’d taken a glancing hit, but thankfully, nothing fatal. And as he huddled behind one of the interior barriers inside the base, the Crab Gunner shooting at him stepped outside for a better view. That was all Richter needed to send it flying back into the building with a well-aimed burst to its chest.

It let out a pained squeal and squirmed on the ground for a few moments—and then was silent. Just as everything was silent but for the whisper of a cold breeze blowing across all of the corpses and blood.

“Is…is that it?” stammered Stoller. “Did we get ‘em all?”

“For now,” said Thomson. “Don’t let your guard down. Stoller and Richter, get up to the interior guard tower and keep a watch for anything else. Petyaeva, you’re with me. Let’s go to the command center and activate the beacon.”

“Yes sir.” The pairs split up and went their opposite ways, Thomson and Petyaeva to the bloodstained door of the main Freiheit command center from which the last batch of Crabmen had come. 

The interior was much like the exterior—covered in blood and corpses—but fortunately, the main computers were still operational. “Don’t even have to log in,” Petyaeva smiled, then grew somber. “It looks like the operator died just before he could activate the beacon. All I need to do is select ‘yes,’ and…there we go. It’ll take a few minutes for the signal to go through, but that’s all. After that, the signal should draw in every Pandora mutant in a one-mile radius. They’ll ignore the refugees and waste all their time on this base.”

“Good.” Thomson readied his weapon and looked out one of the center’s windows. “All we have to do is make sure the control room’s secure in the meanwhile.”

“Yes, sir.” She squinted down at the screen. “Uh, Corporal Thomson, there’s something strange.”

“What?”

“The beacon says it’s also uploading something, but I didn’t tell it to do that, and it shouldn’t even be able to anyways.”

Thomson had expected this—he remembered Harlson’s words about Project Hecate, and also that the other team members were absolutely not to know. “It’s nothing,” he lied. “Harlson said that message would show up if the beacon was activated after the first floor defenses had fallen.”

Now there was nothing to do but wait. The minutes ticked away and the wind continued to blow, and Thomson kept tabs via radio on Stoller and Richter, but no more monsters seemed to be anywhere in the area. Apparently, that Queen had been leading the last reserves of the alien force, at least for now.

Maybe if we’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened, thought Thomson, and then stopped himself. He knew full well that soldiers who spent too much time on might-have-beens and could-bes never tended to last long. 

But as he looked at the carnage around him, there was one thing he couldn’t leave alone. “Why’d you do it?” he asked.

Petyaeva blinked and looked up at him. “Sir?”

“Why’d you betray us?”

This time she didn’t look away, and held his gaze. “I didn’t, Corporal. I can understand if you don’t believe me, but—"

“I wouldn’t have believed you thirty minutes ago, but now, I’m not so sure. You wasted all those crab mutants pretty quickly. If you did turn over to them, you shed a lot of their blood to hide it. So then why’d you attack me back during the interrogation of Subject 16?”

“I didn’t want to, Thom—I mean, Corporal. But the girl…she was changing, but her mind wasn’t. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

“Her body, it mutated and attacked me, but she didn’t want it to. I knew what had happened to her. I knew she was still inside there, somewhere, and I knew she wanted to be let free. But I also knew that she was a valuable research subject, and that you wouldn’t let me…set her free. So I did what I had to do. What I felt was right. Even if it wasn’t what New Jericho wanted.”

“So you knocked me out and blew her head off.”

“Yeah.”

Thomson smiled. It wasn’t much, but he did feel a sliver of relief at knowing Irina hadn’t turned—or at least he could tell himself she hadn’t for a little while. “A higher cause, huh? I guess I can’t blame you, though I wish you wouldn’t have given me that concussion.”

“Sorry, sir.” Neither of them laughed—it was hard to do so when the area was covered in bodies--but it seemed like the tension between them had broken, if nothing else.

“In any case, whatever your reasons were, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t come back to New Jericho either, so we’re all in the same boat.”

Thomson thought that was a lie—Harlson had offered him an even higher position in the organization once he carried out the last part of this mission, the one he hadn’t told his team about.

But then Thomson remembered the odd look in Harlson’s eyes when he mentioned Project Hecate, and his refusal to speak any more about it. And then wondered if he’d ever really be able to return to New Jericho after all. 

This line of thought was interrupted by Petyaeva’s console. It had begun beeping, and a blue light was reflected on her face. “The beacon is activated, the upload’s complete, and the train will be arriving any minute to pick up our people.”

“Good!” Thomson activated the radio in his helmet. “Colonel Harlson, all enemy contacts are down, the central command and guard tower have been secured, and the beacon has been activated. All mission objectives achieved and no KIAs to report. Over.”

A moment of static, and then Harlson’s voice came crackling back over Thomson’s receiver—as well as those of the other three.

“You did it!” Thomson couldn’t remember the last time Harlson seemed happy, but he sure sounded like it now. “I’m proud of you – for remaining loyal to the principles of New Jericho, and helping us secure Project Hecate.” Harlson’s voice grew somber. “But you know what our protocols demand regarding infected individuals. Make sure I don’t see you again. And…good luck. Harlson out.” 

The radio fell silent.

Then Thomson hailed Richter and Stoller. “You two get all that?”

“Yes sir,” replied Stoller. “Um…Corporal Thomson, what should we do now? Did he mean…we’re not with New Jericho anymore?”

“You heard him. We’re infected. They won’t let us back in”

“But then…what’ll we do now?”

“Rendezvous with me in front of the Armadillo. We’ll discuss it there.”

Thomson and Petyaeva left the command center, quickly making their way back out of the dead haven. He knew they’d have to move soon, especially before it got too dark. They might have fended off this wave of aliens, but with the beacon activated, more would be coming soon. 

Stoller and Richter were waiting for him, just as he’d expected. And as he’d hoped, neither was ready for combat. They’d already packed their guns into the APC and were standing around waiting for orders.

“Sir?”

The radio in Thomson’s helmet crackled to life.

“Uh…one minute, Stoller.”

Harlson’s voice echoed in the Corporal’s ears.

“You remember your orders, Thomson. Terminate subjects 17, 21, and 22. Then head to Colby’s Break for extraction. Harlson out.”

“Sir, did something happen?”

“What?” Thomson looked up to see Stoller and Petyaeva looking at him.

“We’re waitin’ on you, sir. Did you get new orders from Colonel Harlson or something? It looked like you were listening to your radio.”

Thomson waited a moment—one that seemed like an eternity to him—and then shook his head.

“Nah.” With one hand he reached up, unlatched his helmet, and tossed it into the river. “This damn thing went on the fritz right after Harlson contacted me.”

“You didn’t have to throw it away, sir,” said Petyaeva, somewhat indignantly. “I could have repaired it.”

“Without New Jericho parts? Probably not. I’ll miss the protection, but I wouldn’t want its visor malfunctioning during combat.”

That settled it. “So then,” yawned Richter, “got any ideas, Corporal? Even if we’re not with Jericho anymore, I’m not going to be giving any orders. We’re all dead anyways.”

“Not yet, Richter,” came Thomson’s firm reply. “At least not if I can help it. Everyone, we’re not welcome in New Jericho anymore, but we won’t survive for long on our own. We need to get into contact with a haven.”

“Where could we go?” asked Petyaeva. “I don’t know of any other havens near Freiheit. There’s one at Colby’s Break, but—”

“Not there,” said Thomson sharply. “New Jericho would shoot us on sight.”

“I might have heard of a Disciples of Anu hideout a few klicks north.” Petyaeva’s gaze turned in that direction, towards Garnet Peak.

Stoller’s face curled up in disgust. “Those freaks? I don’t wanna throw in with them!”

Richter smirked. “They might be the only ones with a shot at getting out of all this alive. You have any other suggestions?” 

“I do, actually.” Stoller had a hint of defiance—and something more—in his voice. “Y’all ever heard of the Phoenix Project?”

Thomson stared at Stoller, having no idea what he was talking about. But it was Richter who spoke up.

“Yeah. Rumors, here and there. Some international operation dedicated to saving the world, something like that. No idea if it was real, but maybe we’d all be a lot better off if they’d started funding something like it before this damn mist came along. So what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well…check this out.” Sheepishly, Stoller fished into one of his belt pouches and withdrew a small, stained piece of paper that was apparently a map of some sort.

“Remember when we took that rest stop a few miles back? Well, while I was out by the trees doin’ my business, I saw…somebody’s arm lying in the bushes. I guess somethin’ must’ve gotten him. He was holdin’ this map real tight, and a data chip, too. I took both, and I meant to tell you guys, but, uh, it just slipped my mind, and I didn’t think it was too important, either.”

Petyaeva grinned. “No worries, Stoller, I can believe that. It’s not like a map would’ve helped us out much. But why’re you telling us this now?”

“Well…I see here there’s somethin’ labeled ‘Phoenix Point.’ Looks like a base of some kind, and it reminded me of all that Phoenix Project stuff I heard on the grapevine back at the fort. And if this map’s accurate, it seems like it might not be too far from here.” Thomson could see hope glinting in the kid’s eyes, and he could even see it in Petyaeva’s as well, though Richter, as always, remained unimpressed. “So I was thinkin’,” Stoller continued, “maybe those Phoenix guys could have us. If we can’t go back to Jericho, maybe we could stay with them.”

“We’re infected,” Richter said. “Think they’ll really take us in?”

“I’ve heard of the Phoenix Project too,” replied Petyaeva. “Some of the rumors…they say someone out there’s working on a cure for the virus. Maybe they could help us.”

She looked at Thomson, as did Richter and Stoller. “Well, sir? You’re in command here, at least technically. What do you think?”

It took a while for Isaiah to come to a decision. Not because he really needed much convincing, not at all. No, it was because as he looked at the map in Stoller’s hands, and the red dot labeled “PHOENIX POINT,” for some reason a slew of memories came floating back into his head. Mostly ones from Maryland—the teachers he’d worked with, the kids he’d tried to defend—but also a few more recent ones, like the speech he’d heard from Tobias West when he first signed on with Vanadium. 

“What is true loyalty, then, if not loyalty to a person or a community or an idea? It is something greater.”

Harlson wasn’t loyal to an idea. He was loyal to New Jericho, maybe to Project Hecate, but not to anything more. And deep down, beyond all the cynicism and all the pain, Thomson wasn’t the same. He wanted to be loyal to something—and couldn’t award that loyalty to an organization that would throw away its own soldiers like this.

Certainly not one that would sacrifice an entire haven.

“Sir?” Irina, Daniel, and J.P were still looking at him expectantly.

“…Let’s do it.” Thomson gestured to the APC. “Everybody in. We should have enough fuel to get there.”

There were no cheers, but there was silent acceptance. And as he trudged towards the vehicle, Thomson allowed himself the closest thing to mirth any of them had seen since this long day had began.

He chuckled, too low for his teammates to hear, and muttered, “Guess I’ve found a higher cause after all, Colonel.”

TO BE CONTINUED

PHOENIX POINT 2019


End file.
